My Fierce Highlander by Vonda Sinclair

are not to call him by his first name.
’Tis not respectful.”
    “He said I could.”
    “I do not care what he said.”
    Rory pouted. “I wish he would come back.”
    She knelt before Rory. “Listen, son, you are
not to mention Angus MacGrath’s name to anyone else. Do you
understand? Donald will kill Master MacGrath if you do.”
    Rory’s eyes widened.
    So she’d told a little fib. In truth, Donald
would kill Gwyneth and Rory if he knew.
    “I can keep a secret,” Rory said with a
solemn expression.
    “Good.” She hugged him, kissed his forehead
and straightened. “Time to go home. Evening will be upon us soon,
and we must milk.”
    He found a short stick and, as if it were a
pistol, pretended to shoot at birds with it.
    She shook her head. The boy would make
anything into a weapon.
    When they rounded the hillside, the stench of
smoke met her nose. She grasped Rory’s hand and pulled him along
with her. Shouts and a scream in the distance chilled her.
    Forcing herself to move forward, she cut
through the trees above the cottage. Flames devoured the thatched
roof.
    Mora!
    “Where is Mora?” she whispered, ran several
paces, then halted. Her dear friend lay face down in the dirt yard,
a sword protruding from her back. “Dear God.” She felt as if a
dagger had struck her own heart.
    Donald’s men milled about around Mora.
    Murdering fiends!
    Horror crumpled Gwyneth’s body and she fell
to her knees among the rocks. “Oh, dear heaven, Mora, what have I
done?” she sobbed, pressing a hand to her mouth to hold in a
scream.
    “Ma, I’m scared,” Rory whimpered.
    “Shh. You must be quiet.” She turned Rory
away from the carnage and held him tight in her trembling arms.
    Donald must have found out about Angus
MacGrath. Was it because of Rory’s friend, or had MacGrath been
captured when he was trying to escape?
    Either way, Mora was dead and Gwyneth took
full blame because she’d insisted on helping him. Mora had
cautioned her against it.
    I’m so sorry, Mora. I will never forgive
myself.
    Gwyneth wiped her eyes and stood. “Come. We
must hide.” She shoved her herb basket under a short bush, grabbed
Rory’s hand and they ran through the wood, slipping on leaves and
pine needles.
    Two of her kinsmen appeared some distance
away, headed to the left of them.
    Freezing, she glanced about frantically, and
then spotted a ditch behind a rock. She dragged Rory toward it.
    “Lie down, and don’t make a sound,” she
whispered. When he wadded himself into a ball on the ground, she
covered him with soggy leaves and twigs. Hiding herself would be
more difficult. She amassed a large pile of leaves and burrowed
beneath. She laid a hand on Rory to keep him calm. As a mere babe,
he had learned how to be quiet when it was important. Baigh had
made sure of it. He’d hated a crying child.
    The MacIrwin men walked by, talking. Panic
quickened her blood.
    Please God, don’t let them find us.
    She couldn’t believe sweet, kind Mora was
dead. A plague upon Donald! She would see him pay for this. Mora
had done nothing wrong.
    The men’s voices moved further away, and
silence returned. Gwyneth concentrated on Rory’s warm, trembling
hand within her own. The rocks on the ground beneath her jabbed
into her shoulder and hip. She found the scent of moldy leaves and
damp earth comforting because they hid her, and kept her and Rory
safe.
    Night descended, the temperature cooled and
two owls hooted. She would not be helping Mora milk her cows this
day, or ever again. They would never share another meal or work
together delivering bairns. Dear Mora, a good woman. A strong
woman. But not stronger than Donald’s gang of murderers. Tears
streamed from Gwyneth’s eyes and dripped into the stony dirt.
    Her only hope now was to flee with Rory, try
to make it to MacGrath land and hope Angus MacGrath would ask his
laird to give them safe passage to the Lowlands, or someplace away
from here.
    Donald’s men would undoubtedly be posted